‘Sometimes I think I’m diabetic. They pee all the time, don’t they?’
She loped over to me with her jacket swung negligently behind her shoulder.
‘They say you can smell a sweetness on their breath.’ She flung an arm round my neck. ‘Is mine sweet?’ She pulled my face towards hers. I disengaged myself.
‘Goodnight, Saskia.’
She was completely unfazed by the rebuff.
‘Goodnight, handsome.’
I watched her saunter along the corridor. She turned at the stair head and gave me an imperceptible girlish wave, a brief flutter of the fingers. Then she floated out of sight. I went back into Myrtle and closed the door behind me. Her half-finished drink sat in its glass on the carpet by the sofa. I picked it up in a hand that was trembling and drank it down in one gulp. Then I went back into the bathroom and turned the shower back on.
FUGUE
I
If there was any hope of beating the Aryan wunderkind Klaus Kramer, that superb physical specimen, it lay in my concealing the route. His advantage was peak physical fitness, my advantage was that I knew these volcanoes back to front. They were my friends. I could navigate them. The rules of the game were that we could start on any summit of our choice and take in all the other summits in any order we chose.
So throughout the whole twenty-four hours I only saw him once, from a distance. I started at the north and he to the south. If we were in competition it was only in the sense that two golfers are in competition. Beyond the psychological aspects of your knowledge of what the other person is doing, nothing they do affects you. It’s not like a boxing match. You are hardly competing with the other individual at all. You are competing with yourself.
Montrachet and Cuban cigars. Some training regime.
If only I didn’t have the massive weight of the wager hanging over me. On the Sikorsky on the way back from the hellish night at Xanadu, I had remonstrated with MacKenzie.
‘What the hell did you think you were playing at?’
She laughed it off. ‘Don’t worry about it, Ally. You could beat him with a grand piano strapped on your back. You could stop to play a prelude and fugue from Bach’s 48 on each top. Besides, I’ve got a plan B.’
One thing MacKenzie never had in her whole life was a plan B.
My phone was busy. Fox had gone to considerable lengths to create a television event. It was being run over a weekend – noon Saturday to noon Sunday. He’d got hold of ninety-six of the great and the good of New Zealand and organised a big relay event in the form of a fundraiser for lots of worthy causes. And there were cameras and umpires on each top and choppers hovering over the Waitemata. He microchipped us to monitor our progress in the dark. But he’d made no secret of the fact that the real contest was between two individuals and took the form of an extreme event. And, indeed, that GBI was up for grabs. The one thing he kept out of the public domain was MacKenzie’s newly acquired and apparently priceless viola. Maybe he wanted to keep his acquisitiveness to himself.
As for me, I tried to ignore it all and live in my own cocoon. I appointed my support crew. I went for military precision: Major Forster and Captain Hodgson, and for the water crossings, Surf Life-savers. Forster enrolled his anonymous-looking chauffeur Pertwee to drive the support vehicle. I’d wanted MacKenzie – least she could do – but she had a gig in New York and that was that. Landed her brother in it and then just buggered off. At 08.45 on the appointed day Mike Harvey interviewed me over the telephone on Newstalk ZB. I was hyped-up.
My room at the Esplanade was like a bomb site, with equipment for the support vehicle spread across the floor – food, drinks, clothing, first aid equipment, maps, torches. You’d have thought we were planning a six-month polar expedition. A shower, a light breakfast, and by 10am we were off down to Mechanics Bay, loading the kayak on to a bright orange Zodiac which took us in a broad surging sweep across the Hauraki to Rangitoto Wharf. Not much wind and the seas calm; good canoeing conditions, but it was going to get hot. I covered myself in factor 15 sunblock. Nikki and I left the Major at the wharf at 11.20 and sauntered up the familiar path through the scoria to time our arrival at the top of Rangitoto for just before midday. The view from the top was breathtaking, and a little awe-inspiring. I could see the whole course laid out before me, the immense clockwise spiral that would take me down to Manurewa and, an age hence, back up to North Head, before us in the dancing water.
We listened by cell phone to the unusual ceremony taking place on the forecourt of the Auckland Medical School from where the relay event was starting. A message of encouragement to the runners and of support for the fund-raising venture from the mayor was read aloud, and then deposited in the runners’ baton. Kramer had elected to start way down south on McLaughlins Mountain. I dismissed him from my mind. I just wanted to get on with the big run. Then came the countdown to twelve noon, and as the first runners headed off round the Auckland Domain, I began the jog back down to Rangitoto Wharf. What a relief! All the preparations had brought us to this point. Now the only concern was in putting one foot in front of another. I’d often thought about this run, and tried to anticipate what this moment would be like, of starting out on this immense undertaking which I’d often rehearsed in segments. I’d had no idea that much more would hang on the outcome than I’d ever imagined.
I was extremely careful jogging back down Rangitoto. A sprained ankle now and it would be all over. But all went well, and I felt good. I put on a spray skirt at the wharf and climbed gingerly into the sea kayak, pausing to drink a can of juice, the first sip of what was to become a vast fluid intake over 24 hours. Forster and Nikki headed back to the mainland. Then it was out on to the water and over to Browns Island. I tried to relax into an easy rhythm and not work too hard. It was going to be a long day. The Zodiac with the Surf Life-savers chugged quietly behind me. At Browns I left my spray skirt on and worked my way eastward along the beach, avoiding the long grass and searching for the one path that led to the trig point on the summit. I found it. It was steep, dry, and slippy, and I was out of breath at the summit of Browns. Careful. Out of breath on the second volcano. Not good enough.
Back down, gingerly again, and back along the beach, into the canoe, and off to St Heliers. So, the two main crossings out of the way. Off with the spray skirt and the boat shoes, on with the running shoes. Two volcanoes down. News about Kramer: he was on his fourth. Don’t panic. The water crossings were always going to be slower. Up the steep path to summit No. 3, Glover Park. Well ahead of my personal schedule. And there, on Waitara Road, was the support vehicle, with the British Army. On to Taylor Hill. Forster buddied me for a bit on a mountain bike, but somehow we lost one another at the foot of Taylor, and as I ran down West Tamaki Road towards Glen Innes Domain on the Tamaki Estuary I found myself worrying about where he had gone. Never mind. Just run. Then, at the wharf, there was no sign of the canoe or the Zodiac. Another glitch. I worked my way eastward along the beach, looking out for the gaudy orange colouring of the boat. There she was, almost across at Bucklands Beach. I started wading. Of course, the water was too shallow for the Surf Life-savers to get any closer. We met halfway and I struggled into the canoe and paddled for Zubrisky’s at Half Moon Bay, cursing quietly. I was soaked to the skin when I started the long trudge up from Posiedon towards Pigeon Mountain, but it was hot by now and I was dry in ten minutes. At the race track beside Pigeon Mountain some kids were playing with remote-control model race cars and one of them nearly ran me over. But I sidestepped it on time and hauled myself up Pigeon, touched the summit pole without ceremony, turned, and headed back towards the estuary round the long domain that would take me to the boat house at Farm Cove.
Here, the same glitch occurred again. No Zodiac. This time I waded right out to my neck before we made contact. I had to scramble on board before I could get into my kayak. Then it was a brief paddle to the mudflats by Riverside under the shadow of Mount Wellington. The last kayak crossing for the time being. Thank h
eaven. Up through another grassy domain and I accessed Wellington through an ‘English woodland’ at the end of Fraser Road. Skirting the south-east edge of the caldera, I accessed the summit and returned to the car park, where the support crew waited. A change of running shoes. So much for the warm-up. Six down. Kramer had eight and was down at Ihumatao. Hold your nerve. Now for the start, proper, of an immense run.
From Mount Wellington I redescended to Panmure Basin, taking the footpath round the lagoon with the basin on my left, leaving it just short of the Waipuna Lodge Motel where I crossed at a busy intersection to start the long haul down the length of Carbine Road. At its far end it was a right turn over the motorway to access the barely recognisable MacLennan Hills, an ancient crater obliterated by housing, then across the Mount Wellington Highway to Mount Richmond, and up the Great South Road to Robertson Hill.
Ten hills down. Into double figures. How many had KK done?
Twelve. Holding his lead but not increasing it. Don’t think about it.
Next came a triumph of subtle route planning. I crossed back under the motorway and towards the muddy tendrils of the Tamaki Estuary at Otahuhu, working my way through a maze of gardens, waste ground and culverts, to find myself at a little-known weir by which I could access the back of the Re Ora stud farm, and Pukekiwiriki. Very slippery. Take great care. The beautiful dark brown race horses came to inspect us, bemused. Nikki, buddying me on foot at this point, gave herself a shock on an electric fence. We trudged up the path winding through the farm’s 700 acres. And there, on Waiouru Road, were Forster, Pertwee, and the support vehicle.
That whole segment, through the Ra Ora stud farm and back up to East Tamaki, took much longer, and I reckon was much further than I’d thought. But now, by way of consolation, I could knock off the four East Tamaki summits quickly. Styaks Swamp, Green Hill, Hampton Park, Otara Hill. I clawed back Kramer’s lead down to one. Catch-up volcanology. After a brief rest at St John’s Church on Otara Hill, I started out on one of the longer of what I called the ‘utility’ or ‘re-siting’ runs. These were longish runs during which no summits were achieved, but they were necessary in order to access the next volcanic group. This one, about 10k, took me down Preston Road, back over the motorway, and down GSR to the Wiri Group – Ash Hill, Manurewa, and – Kramer’s starting point – McLaughlins. I reflected ruefully that he had chosen well to avoid this ascent. McLaughlins was a killer: a harsh, steep, slippy, tussocky mound at the end of a remote quarry site. I touched the tower on its summit. Now I had arrived at my most southerly point. Eighteen down, thirty to go. Kramer had twenty. He had re-established his two-lead cushion.
I got a second wind coming back from Mclaughlins and heading up by Roscommon to Papatoetoe. Darkness was falling. I was thankful that I’d accessed McLaughlins while I could still see where I was going. At this stage I was running, more or less, to schedule – one top every half hour. It put a pressure on me to keep going. Where to next? The Papatoetoe-Mangere group – Kohuora, Crater Hill, Pukaki Creek. On the way between Kohuora and Crater Hill I passed within about 400 metres of an old home of mine. Night had fallen; in the end, darkness had come quickly. The thought of going home to a hot bath and bed was attractive. Don’t think about it. Go on to the next volcano. Then something bizarre happened. A man in a night shirt came out of one section and disappeared into another, hotly pursued by another very angry-looking man carrying two heavy wooden implements shaped like a club and a shield. What on earth was all that about? I mentioned it to Forster but he was quite blasé and clearly thought it normal South Auckland behaviour. Sauntering about the streets of Auckland by night was obviously going to be salutary.
Now the long haul down Massey Road towards the airport and in pursuit of the Ihumatao volcanoes. Westney Road – Montgomery Road – and at last round the lip of the large Waitomokia crater. Forster was buddying me on the mountain bike again. On Oruarangi Road, some Saturday-night revellers were making a bit of a noise. I paused in the shadows and let them pass. With darkness, I had become wary of people and dogs. I certainly disturbed the canine population of Oruarangi Road. The barking was cacophonous. You could have followed our progress by the noise.
I shinned up and over the gate at Ihumatao quarry, taking a torch, and, unaccompanied, headed off down the sealed driveway into a black hole. It was further than I’d anticipated, and for a moment I lost my way. I went a couple of hundred metres further than I needed to. It would not take much, I reflected, to damage morale irreparably; to take a wrong turning and to add on, say, five kilometres at this point, when I’m not even half way; it might be enough to persuade me to go home. Then I found the track again and headed up the left-handed curve to the lip of Maungataketake. Here, it was deepest, darkest night, and I was 1,500 metres from my colleagues, feeling despondent and alone. Come on! Get back to the road. One more and you are halfway. Pukeiti. Your favourite.
Pukeiti at midnight.
I had a strange experience on the lip of the caldera at Pukeiti. I was in a fugue. Fugue: (Chambers) … a form of amnesia which is a flight from reality. Just as I reached my summit point a spectre, a wraith, seemed to emerge from Pukeiti’s crater and envelop me in its dark shadow. I stumbled towards the black hole. I had a moment of complete loss of balance and disorientation. I lashed out at something completely insubstantial. I was seized with an unnatural terror. Then I succeeded in turning my back on the crater and I broke into a sprint which I sustained until I’d topped Otuataua, and before I knew it I was on the causeway crossing to Puketutu.
The crossing to Puketutu was tranquil, balmy, and starlit. I met some fishermen on the way who glanced at me incuriously. Then I lost my way again – missed the point at which I’d rehearsed a leap over a fence, and consequently battled through gorse and tussocks. But the climb to the summit was uneventful, and the run off the main causeway back to the mainland was trouble-free. But long.
Mangere Lagoon, and Mangere Mountain – a real scramble up its steep nether slopes. I’d wanted to be over the Manukau Harbour by now. Slipping behind time. I jogged down to Kiwi Esplanade and crossed via the old bridge and straight over Gloucester Park to take in Hopua – Number Twenty-Nine. Now another long run – all of the ensuing runs now were long and arduous. Each summit would be won by sheer determination. It was starting to get hard. Mount Smart. Number Thirty. I’d never come this far before. It was a warm, still night. I was drinking plenty, and voiding frequently. As a matter of fact, I was voiding my way across the streets of Auckland with a carefree, uninhibited prodigality; I had no choice in the matter. I had urgency.
Mount Smart to One Tree Hill – a long and bitter climb. This was where the relay event for the ninety-six runners was going to culminate. Would it not be nice to stop here, to have a snooze, and to wait for the others who would turn up at midday? Hadn’t I done enough? Surely thirty-one peaks was a respectable number. I closed my mind to these incessant whisperings and tried to think of nothing else save the next summit to be attained. Three Kings.
Kramer had thirty-four.
The route on and off Big King was by a combination of overgrown tracks, subtle even in broad daylight. At 2 in the morning I thought to myself: this is utterly crazy. Still, two-thirds of the way there. Big King was sullen and silent and overgrown. There had been quite a population of people at large atop One Tree Hill, but Big King was deserted and I was glad of it. I wouldn’t have wished to meet anybody up there.
Mount Roskill next, and then a long trek out west to Mount Albert, the support car and the mountain cyclist in faithful attendance. The car sighed along by the kerbside as I trudged on, growing monosyllabic. I think probably the Ihumatao volcanoes had been the spiritual low for me, and certainly it was hard and tough out west, but I don’t believe I ever seriously thought of giving up, and I knew that once I had gained Mount Eden, I would feel that the end was in sight. But it took a long time to get there. The stretch between Mount Albert and Mount Eden seemed endless. On the top of Mount Eden I was rewarded
by a rare sight – Auckland City from on high, illuminated. Stunning.
Not long after that it was light again. Back down off Eden and past Te Pahouwaiki – the sunken car park of the teachers’ training college. Then Mount St John, Mount Hobson, and on through Remuera. Only about one more marathon to go. I started to giggle inanely.
Little Rangitoto – Orakei Bain – and a steep climb up to the museum on Auckland Domain.
After the Domain came Albert Park. How odd to find yourself in the middle of a wakeful city. I worked my way laboriously down to the wharf. Forty-two down and six to go. But first, one last water crossing.
Kramer had forty-four. Two-stroke lead again.
My left calf was hurting. Nikki gave me a tubigrip, returning a compliment. I struggled into the canoe. I felt like a geriatric stroke patient being helped into a bath chair. But once settled I felt better again; my upper body had lots left to give, only my legs were giving out.
But I was running out of time. I crossed to Fisherman’s Wharf on the north side of the harbour bridge, could hardly get out of the kayak, and found myself seizing up with seventeen kilometres and six volcanoes left to run. Dig deep. You can still catch Kramer. He feels just as hellish as you do. Six to go. But you’ve only got ninety minutes. Now we’re both on the North Shore, but Kramer has just left Mount Victoria down at Devonport and he will take Mount Cambria in his stride on his way to North Head. Yet he’s still got Rangitoto to do and he’s finishing on Browns Island. These are big asks, but he’ll be kayaking and he’ll have lots of upper body strength left, whereas I’m just about done in. It’s going to be close.
It was very hot. The news from the main event, the relay, was good. They were timing themselves to finish at One Tree Hill on schedule. I might not beat Kramer and I might not even beat the clock.
Onepoto – Tank Farm – Lake Pupuke. At the lake, down by the Pump House, there was a fête on and they were charging admission. I accessed the lip of the huge caldera overlooking the lake, trying to avoid the crush of people, and turned for Devonport. Lake Road seemed infinite. Nikki left the support vehicle and buddied me all along its length. She cheered me up but I’m afraid I wasn’t very good company. I said to her, ‘Nikki I’ve had it.’
The Seven Trials of Cameron-Strange Page 17